Discount Relationships

Bodies sprawled out
like sloppy cursive words -

forgotten like memories


I see you with
your wild, wind tossed eyes,
made rough like your shoulders...

Molded from nothing

but pure hope
and the warm embrace
of a clear night.
~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~
You're wrong again

She's untitled - unfinished
so cliche', completely
unoriginal

another uneventful August

We Are the People of Time

Monday is still asleep,

Tuesday tries to wake him gently,

when she can.

Wednesday doesn't know what to think,

he's very emotional.

Thursday councils him to no avail.

Friday is quite a handful,

but a cute one,

for she is the baby.

Saturday tries to be a "good boy"

yet he doesn't even know what that is.

Sunday, well, she is a stay at home mom,

that lost her husband to a war way back when. She prays day and night that

her children will have good lives,

but she does not believe it is possible.


January is the oldest of the months,

though he doesn't really care.

February is a hoplessly lost romantic.

March is lucky, but far too realistic for her taste. April dances across the lawn

in the rain

and smiles all the time,

even when she is not happy in the slightest.

May is haughty and he doesn't get it.

June sings songs outside of July's window,

he is trying to win her heart.

August, the loner,

does well in school and carries a million issues. September secretly loves him,

but is too shy to say.

October the prankster pranks us all

but never gets into trouble.

November is thankful

for the tears and laughs alike

but not for himself.

As for myself,

I am December,

they say I am low-key with a heart of gold,

but I think not.


In a way we are a family

and we mean the world to each other.

Though we do not share the blood,

we fight,

we cry,

we bleed,

we tear each other apart

when the  moment feels right.

One day people will  know

just who we are, but for now,

I guess this is as good as it gets.


_____
Completely inspired by the Children of Time on the blog Iwrotethisforyou.me

Runaway Artist

Everyone laughs at me

for drawing a rose on your nose

with your parents right behind me.

They call me crazy

for writing poetry on your arms

in my dreams. No one believes

that I'll ever make it anywhere

if I am impulsive

and my work

is washable.


But your chest

is perfect for whipped cream

portraits and your tongue is

the most comforting pen

I've ever known.


Everyone laughs.

They call me crazy.

No one believes

 that I'll ever make it.


So just you watch

with love on my side

and ink in my veins


I can do anything.
 

Falling for the Sun

Call me crazy, but believe me, I am far from it -


I think I am beginning

to love Dawn


more than


the bewitching hour has ever allowed me to.

Or perhaps this fluster

is merely infatuation

with something new


and unknown to me.


Either way, call me crazy if you like,


but I believe this could


honestly be


good for me.

Vortexing Myself

I hate how you can create such beautiful things

and all i can do is sit back and watch. i hate how

everything you do makes me feel so strongly that i

can't control myself and how your words let me

understand things you say in ways you swear you

don't want me to because they are too dark for

my sensitive heart. i hate how much i love you

even though i'm just another grain of sand

in your show. i hate how i can hate myself so much

and somehow i still love you more than that.


And i know it sounds like i hate you or i hate me

or i hate the life i live; but I don't. I swear I don't.

I simply find it incredibly difficult to appreciate

the fact I have yet to fully master the art of creation.


That skill that allows you to choose which

moments you experience and which ones

you don't.


P.S. I love you.


Please tell me you understand...

Against the Grain

If we keep fighting

Just to taste

Dissonance

We cant keep doing

This.


We wake up, smile,

And wonder what lies

To spread around

Today.


They taught us to

Start fires, burn things,

Destroy

Everything we can

Before

someone else did.


Fight

Me to make yourself

Look so big and

Syrong.


Rise up against all

The crazy, falling

World

Just to feel

alive.


As long as you

Promise

That you are the one

To choose your

Actions going

Against

The grain of society.


No longer will I

Allow

You to blame

Me.

Even From Afar

I stayed up all night listening to you pour your heart out

across a million wires and 1,600 miles; Sleep begged to

take me, she pulled gently and she tugged with more force

but nothing worked.  Finally, our means of communication crashed

and she won her way in a manner of speaking, dreams

came flooding in easily and pains of all kinds melted away.


Once Sleep had taken me back to my wanna be home,

my only lifelong, truly impenetrable fortress, I saw us

in a living room talking. I was leaning against the wall

you were sitting on the couch, the words were coming

smoothly and each sound made me feel more at bliss.


"I'm so glad you're finally here, Baby" and 'It's great to

be able to hold you whenever we want now" followed by

"I love you"s and "You're beautiful"s filled the room as

I sat down beside you, gently laying my head on your chest

your heartbeat was the most lovely rhythm I've heard

and that layered so delicately with your breathing - steady

and calming created the best lullaby I have ever known.


Then the others joined us and a movie came on, there were

human pillows and breathing stuffed animals. No one was alone

no matter how they felt, that's just the way our crooked little

group of love and insanity is. So this afternoon when I awoke

to the sounds of water running and the dryer coming on,

to the reality of living with a mother and teenage brother

there was still a smile not quite perfect, but beautiful enough

to put the sun to shame in your eyes. I know you're busy today

and you probably won't find this for a while, but I thought

you should know just what you do to me - even now from so far.
    

The Transition

I never asked you to be a knight in shining armor

and I never loved you as my fool in tinfoil. I offered up

my soul to you and showed you where to find the key

to my library gallery - the home of every word I've ever written,

all the sketches I've abandoned, all the discarded rags

used for blotting and clotting. I let you in as a part of

the audience whenever I stood to steady the easel

or reach for a new bottle of paint and a brush that hasn't


rusted just yet. And eventually I pulled you in closer to me

than I've ever let anyone else before. I turned you into

my canvass -  my heart into pigment. That's when you learned

the tragedy of living in my shoes and how each time I meet

someone new that I actually like a new self portrait is created

highlighting the parts of me that found love in. Then when they leave -

because they always leave I become a masterpiece taken from

that brilliant golden frame in the Louvre simply to be forgotten

in a flooded basement somewhere in Louisiana. I kill off everything

from that image. I paint over it. I scratch at it. I claw away the layers.


I form a cocoon and awkwardly try again, but it never works.

The Mona Lisa within my lacking smile morphs a little more into

Frankenstein or maybe just the Devil with each flick of my wrist.


Get out while you can, Darling. My brilliantly dented flake.

With Holes in my Soul

No. Stop. Listen.


Look, I know where you think I'm going with this

but it's not another rape poem, and it's not

about physical abuse of any other kind.


No. Stop. Listen.


I wear socks that don't match, socks that

don't fit me quite right, with loud colors

and patterns that nobody else would like.


No. Stop. Listen.


It's not that I'm crazy, in fact it's to keep me sane,

no one listens to little girls - even when they

are all grown up. It's a rebellion of class.


No. Stop. Listen.


I know what you're thinking to yourself -

something like "this chick's outta her mind"

but I wouldn't be if I could just have your time.


No. Stop. Listen.


They have holes because like my ideas

they get worn out cycling around in my head

full of nothing but cobwebs and 1,000 tons of paper.


No. Stop. Listen.


I'm not homeless or poor, it's not to be rude

I just needed a way of validating my own rights

because no one else seems to have the time.
    

The Crazy Parody of Nonsense

And i know im not always the best listener,

i get sidetracked and confused i

lose myself in my own little world.

I know im not the girl of your dreams,

i don't look good without make up

and im too big in some areas and

way too tiny in others.


I know that my heart is falling apart

its tied together with all sorts of

useless things and my memory holds on

to more of the bad than the good

 but I try.


I am also a dreamer, so i imagine what life could be.

I imagine me and you.

I think of all the places we could see and things we could do.

I envision you happier than ever before

and sometimes I let myself pretend im

the reason for that joy. So right now I'm

seeing the world so much darker than it

really is, but tomorrow, I promise I'll see

the blindingly good side instead,

so long as you'll give me the night


to make the change.

Oh and I know my heart is small,

but i love you with every ounce of love

everyone alive or dead has ever had to

give and i love you for so much more

than just that.

Pressed Daisies

There is innocence and a sense

of compassion in all that you do.


I remember how we sat on the rooftop

sharing our dreams as I wrote my poetry

and you tucked flowers into my hair.

I remember that night in the coffee shop

listening to the radio play songs of love

as we split a chocolate chip cookie -

I wrote and you played TETRIS on your i-pod.


I remember staying up with you all night

and then volunteering the next day

when that stranger walked by and

asked if she could take a picture of us.


I look forward to the parties and dances

where we will smile our prize winning smiles

and I will wear new flowers in my hair just for you.

There is passion and hope in every moment

we share and I hope this never ends.
    

Scribbled Pink Ink

Strawberry, I know I haven't always been

as sentimental or daringly delicate as my name

suggests, but you know as well as I do that Poetry

is an urge, it's an addiction and as such it cannot

be scheduled or pleasing to every mind. My vocabulary

dies off when you're not here and my ink chases

after you - only to end up friend on the side walk

a few feet up the street. I'm afraid of inviting


the computer over for dinner because it devours

my soul as well and that changes the flavor of my words

for whatever's left of my lifetime - until he's my guest

again. Depression brings over an odd cinnamon whiskey

and Love raids my wine cellar, so I hate writing with them

at the table in your seat. Oh dear, Strawberry, I know

today's all about you, but you need to know that

your dear, sweet Poetry's just not the same


without you.


Happy Birthday, Strawberry...

Grey Skies and Sunshine

It's not that there's anything wrong


and my sleep deprivation was

intentional.


Because really,

the world around me is just so enticing,

so inspiring.


I can't

get myself to stay still

long enough to sleep or eat.


Don't worry,

it's not that there's anything wrong,

I just want


to create

something with the power to bring you

to your knees.

Helianthus Annuus (sunflower)

Dearest Friend,


I know that I promised I would try more often to

be happy so you could worry less and we could get the rest

of the world off our back. It's just that Life's so good

at getting in the way of living and sometimes there's

just nothing left to do but hide in the darkness and cry.

Darling, I'm so sorry but the sunflowers are still

my very favorite thing to draw because I am tired

of tear-stained smiles and ghost eyes winking shyly


as I wake to the shadows of the world and all those people

who want to be understood despite their genetic inability to

understand anything at all. I know I told you I'd look for

things about myself that are beautiful, but all I could find

were my eyes, my heart, and my crooked smile


(it outshines the sun when you are near)


 Love, I know that I promised to try and to be happy,

but does that mean no more sunflower drawings or

waterfall paintings? And Love, if I asked you why

you worry about me would you give me an honest answer;

could you follow it up with how you are able to love someone

like me the way you do? Usually, I only ever draw sunflowers


 when I'm trying not to cry, but this time,this time

I think it was just for the sake of nostalgia. Thank you

for loving me the way you do. Thank you for finding me

here every day. Thank you for helping me find myself.


With eternal love,

your dreamer



- Helianthus annuus = scientific classification of a sunflower

Poetically Droppin' that Wisdom

"There you go again,

droppin' wisdom like

it's nothin' at all,"

he says as he

glances up from

the newspaper.


And she likes to mention,

"How freakishly poetic

my entire life is."

While I make coffee

humming your name

like some new top 40 track.


It's not that I want to write,

just something I have to do


if I want to get through life

with more living than surviving

and I hope that's what I am


remembered for. Poetically.

Remembering Perfect Anarchy

I love the way we took turns

inspiring each other by being

exactly who we were and

saying only what we truly meant.


if you come through town again

anytime soon I'd like to take you

for one more cup of coffee

in that little cafe by the park,

we can sit anywhere you like.


I love the way things were for us

when you were still here. And as much

as I miss the perfection we were,

I am completely honest when I say

that I don't miss you at all


(even though I still love you


with all my heart.)

Modern Love

A concept overdone

and yet you bit off

more than you could chew


and tried toying with

something cliche' that

you knew you would

never be able to pull off


creatively like you

wanted to.


But maybe Modern love's

a rebel's song on the radio -


maybe it's me and you

and Skype and no such thing

as home.


Perfume for no reason

and wires crossed, but

no stars, like Shakespeare promised.


Maybe this is that

modern love you

always talked about...


All hot and bothered

with no real beginning

and disappearance to

mark the end.
 

How to Learn a Lover

As I looked,

I stared -


my mind roamed

freely


and by listening

to his


memory, not his

words


everything

became clear.

Waltzing with a Ghost

The songs you introduced to me -

CDs playing on repeat until they get so

scratched that the sound isn't audible

anymore. Porcupine tree and God is an Astronaut

acid rock and plain piano flood the room.


I wish you'd left me your record player

and a vinyl or two, but I understand

why you couldn't find that love in your heart.

It's been a while since I've listened

to your soul or read through the poems

written in pencil on faded grey lines of hope;


but I think you should know, I would

pay tribute to every tainted opportunity

and charred photograph we have yet to find

with each tear I am about to shed. But you -


you don't even understand that, do you?
    

Tears from Shooting Stars

Fragile.


That's the only word I can think of

to describe the life I live and the kind

of person I am. There's only so much

to a lonely, old soul that anyone else

would ever even dream of


understanding.


But you, you know that already,

don't you? You come here daily

ready for your next does of my

thoughts bittersweet like the coffee

you sip as you read as much as you can

before the alarm for work goes off.


It's like you can't feel anything

for yourself unless you know  what

I've been feeling lately, as though

you are only numb until I interfere

with your days. . .


Fragile.


That's more than who I am,

it's the life I live and the people

I love with every piece of my

shattered heart beating profusely

beneath this scarred chest of mine.


It's why these words sound so good

to you, why you think you understand,

even though, I know you don't. So don't

bother pretending, it doesn't make me

love you anymore than I do as is. But

don't worry, you weren't exactly meant to


understand.
 

Roses and Shadows Bloom Together

I have gardens thriving in my veins

fertalized by the ashes of too many

unspoken goodbyes and watered by tears.


The ghosts of the people I never got

enough time to love, rent out space

in my heart and tend to the thorns

so my wrists stay sewn shut this time around.


I am made of olive branches and

goddamn heavenly roses tended by angels


and from now on Sorrow


has no power over me.
    

Yin and Yang

If you continue to balance me out this perfectly,

I promise this can never go sour.

Ultimate Solar Flare

When all of this started you were the sun -

with little flecks of moon dust

sprinkled in your soul.


Now all that's left

is a handful of carbon.


You burned yourself up

far too fast

for me


to hold.
    

White Crayon Collection

Today


you are one

of the forgotten.


Maybe tomorrow


you will be

the sole founder

of history.
    

I Thought I Could Fly...

I don't know who else to write this to

you seem to understand me

more than others try


so I am going to pour my heart out

to you


now.


I hope that's alright,

but you're the kind of person that will say yes

to anything


so long as someone's emotional well being

will benefit. And I promise

mine will


So dearest diary and closest friend,

I hope all is well in your world

because in mine the skies are grey

the clouds refuse to move away


I miss the sun

I don't remember what a smile is

I feel trapped in my own being


pencils with lead and pools of ink

just don't know how to convey

the things I feel right now


my thoughts eat themselves

before I get the chance to think them

and I am breathing enough to get by

but it's only just enough with no extra space

to breathe.


I don't understand it either,

there's nothing at all wrong

everything around me is fine,


but I need to say something

in hopes you will have the cure

I need more than ever before


being alone is a choice

but

loneliness is a disease


and lately:


I am more alone than ever before. . .


While I don't expect you

as a book with uneven lines

and coffee stains or a person

with a life to live and your own fears to face

to understand this or to help me at all


I don't know who else to write this to

you seem to understand me

more than others try


so I am just here on your door step pouring my heart out

to you.

Bartender's Regulars

Shyly you sip from your watered down whisky as they play heartbreak from the piano and soulbreak from the guitar. And I know you refuse to acknowledge that these feelings you feel are in fact your own and no one else's but sometimes that's all you have keeping the distinction between yourself and everyone else clearly enough that anyone can tell. Even if it is just barely. 

Incomplete Without You Response 1:

Missing You, Always

Wings of Rose Petals

Oh, Love,


I like to think that beauty outshines the madness -

that petals are more brilliant than thorns

could ever be potent.


Maybe that's how you've managed to keep me alive

for so long with nothing more than a glass jar,

a handful of dirt, some water, and a spoonful of lullabies

filled with nothing but the utmost adoration.


Oh, Love,


You truly are made of the sun's brilliance

to find me as radiant as this rose -

glorious, cheerful yellow


like your own rays dancing through the room

landing on every heart with the simplicity of

a butterfly's kiss, and the epitome

of hope needed now more than ever.

Handwritten Notes for You

Which Bottle of Wine Was it?

It was late and I struggle to recall which

number bottle of wine we were on, but

I said something and it came out like

"Strawberry, I love you, you can't keep falling"

only it was slurred and 'Strawberry' was all wrong.


After a minute you looked at me with halos

in your eyes and a pitchfork between your teeth

"I'll hold on, for you Poetry, because you gave me

hope when I had nothing but despair to offer up in turn."


And in that moment, I knew, even in my drunken bliss

that this was meant to be, Strawberry loves her Poetry

both for addiction's sake and a heart to call home.

Just as Poetry promised to live up to her name

for Strawberry's sake - as a way of saying that

hope's always here. Because it was late and I


struggle to recall which number bottle of wine

we were on, but something clicked right then

and we weren't meant to think clearly that night.